The Ways We Hide: A Novel

by Kristina McMorris

Genres: World War II

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of Sold On A Monday—over a million copies sold!—comes a sweeping World War II tale of an illusionist whose recruitment by British intelligence sets her on a perilous, heartrending path.

As a little girl raised amid the hardships of Michigan's Copper Country, Fenna Vos learned to focus on her own survival. That ability sustains her even now as the Second World War rages in faraway countries. Though she performs onstage as the assistant to an unruly escape artist, behind the curtain she's the mastermind of their act. Ultimately, controlling her surroundings and eluding traps of every kind helps her keep a lingering trauma at bay.

Yet for all her planning, Fenna doesn't foresee being called upon by British military intelligence. Tasked with designing escape aids to thwart the Germans, MI9 seeks those with specialized skills for a war nearing its breaking point. Fenna reluctantly joins the unconventional team as an inventor. But when a test of her loyalty draws her deep into the fray, she discovers no mission is more treacherous than escaping one's past. 

Inspired by stunning true accounts, The Ways We Hide is a gripping story of love and loss, the wars we fight—on the battlefields and within ourselves—and the courage found in unexpected places.

"The Queen's Gambit meets The Alice Network in this epic, action-packed novel of family, loss, and one woman's journey to save all she holds dear?including freedom itself." ?Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Forest of Vanishing Stars

 

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Release date: September 6, 2022

Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark

Print pages: 573

Sample

Chapter 1

September 1942

Brooklyn, New York

Deep within me, a sense of dread buzzes and crackles, an electrical wire threatening to short. I’m trapped by the stage lights, the performance well in motion. I assure myself that Charles’s behavior, subtle oddities throughout tonight’s tricks, falls within reason. It was at his prodding, after all, that a top New York critic agreed to attend. As a faceless judge in the shadows, the lone man can render a verdict that could pack future shows—or trigger a decline.

Even so, what I detect from Charles differs from nerves.

Only with disciplined effort do I resist rushing through the grand finale. I distribute a padlock to each of the volunteers: two airmen, a banker type, and a trio of sprightly ladies. With all the poise and undulating cadence of a showman’s assistant, I encourage their inspection. My narration flows out, as programmed as a song on a player piano. On this stage alone, it’s my fourth performance in two days.

Stewing in a haze of cigarette smoke, aftershave, and floral perfume, the medium-sized theater could be any one of a hundred. The attendance is respectable at two-thirds full. Largely from the “cheap seats” of the balcony, periodic catcalls remain standard fare, with no help from my galling if customary outfit. Astoundingly, the sequined halter and midthigh skirt are rather modest for my role.

Displayed on the prop table are two pairs of handcuffs and a set of minuscule keys. I’m retrieving them all when Charles reappears in the right wing of the stage to await my cue. He’s traded his top hat and tails for a black bathing costume that hugs his lean build from shoulders to thighs. All in line with our usual act, save for the object in his grip.

An ax.

I bristle, less from startle than confusion. A stagehand was supposed to brandish the tool, not Charles. And certainly not yet.

For a show that blends illusion and danger—from the magical mending and vanishing of items to mind reading and death-defying feats—there’s purpose to every step, glance, and gesture. To timing above all. At the climax of the act, as fears arise over the escape artist’s ability to elude his bonds, a harried display of the ax implies need for its imminent use, amplifying suspense.

It’s hardly to be used as—what? A parading of bravado?

Still, we’ve performed together with such frequency over three years of touring that my speech hitches only slightly. “Now…that our ‘committee’ of volunteers from the audience has keenly inspected the padlocks for authenticity”—I pause, prompting nods from the lock-bearing group—“death-defying escapologist Charles Bouchard shall be sealed into the galvanized-iron milk can, airtight and filled with water to its very brim.” Grandly I gesture toward the barrel-size container, just as Charles interjects.

“Een fact!” He reemerges prematurely with his faux French accent, turning the sea of heads. “So superior are my abilities to those of Harry Houdini himself, I balk at even zee most basic safeguards.”

The affront to my late idol, a legend for this very trick, irks me but briefly. More pressingly, I struggle to decipher Charles’s intentions as he strides past the volunteers to reach center stage, his slicked ebony hair tousled from his costume change. “Observe, for instance, zis emergency tool, which I have primed with a hacksaw. For what, you ask? Why, to do…zis.” Against an edge of the milk can, he slams the ax handle—once, twice—and breaks the handle in two.

My chest tightens, despite murmurs of surprise and delight. Charles slings the pieces aside with a hearty “voilà,” barely missing my T-strap heels. Even the four-piece band, routinely dispassionate in the pit, gawks with interest.

“What is more,” he proclaims, swooping toward me barefoot, “one with supernatural gifts has no need for caution. Is it not so, Mademoiselle Vos?” I’m still eyeing the can—finding no damage, gratefully—when he snatches from me the tiny ring of keys. He jangles them high, pinkie in the air, as if ringing a bell for tea service, before tossing them into his mouth and swallowing them whole.

A ripple of gasps. A mix of groans.

Another maddening, bewildering detour.

Unless vitally called for, never stray from the act. Of the many rules I’ve taught him, this was the first. The most crucial.

I dredge up a smile nonetheless, bright with Victory Red lips, ever accustomed to wearing a mask as much onstage as off. And besides, I’m well aware the keys are unnecessary, the padlocks a ruse. The neck of the can is, after all, rigged with an outer and inner wall. Telescoped upward, the lid detaches with secured locks intact. It’s a deceit based on presumption, a twist on a story viewers convince themselves to be true. Just as experience tells them a book holds full-sheeted pages and a shoe heel is built solidly through, to their minds, a milk can opens only one way.

Mind you, Charles’s ingesting of the keys is real. For escapologists, a trained resistance to gagging is required to handily swallow an item, then reproduce it on cue. Compliments of a sword swallower, I learned the rather unsavory skill while on breaks from my old sleight-of-hand acts. It was at the very dime museum where I first met Charles, back when his unruly black hair wasn’t yet slicked with tonic, his average if pleasing face still free of smugness; when labeled a “curiosity,” he drew the upper crust of society to point and cringe.

Who could have guessed he’d become my greatest illusion?

“Alors, zee final touches!” Charles holds out his wrists and regards me with a jerk of his chin, a sign to administer the handcuffs and resume my patter. His granting of permission.

Annoyance curls my fingers, interrupted by a heckling sailor.

“Hey, honey, I could think of some better ways to use those handcuffs!”

“Yeah, Kazlowski, like to lock up your ugly ass,” calls another.

“Pipe down, all you! We got ladies here!”

The exchange is typical nowadays, with an abundance of enlisted boys high on hormones and sips from their flasks, antsy for glory half a world away. For people like me, the war could as easily be set in another universe.

Ordinarily I’d toss out a clever comeback, but distracted, I simply reassume control with a clearing of my throat. Somewhere in the room, a critic looks on.

“As you will see,” I declare in a voice that, based on a rare press mention, outsizes my graceful ladylike frame, “both pairs of handcuffs, also diligently inspected by our committee, will be fastened to Monsieur Bouchard’s wrists.”

More nods from the group.

Back on script.

I apply the cuffs, tempted to attach them overly tight. Evading my glare, Charles makes a display of being firmly bound. After I remove the milk-can lid, he wriggles into the container with more sloshing than usual. The theater’s stagehands—one burly, one bearded—join us with prefilled buckets and quickly remedy the water displacement.

I discovered long ago, for help with shows and rehearsals in any theater, advance gratuity ensures a job done right. Or done at all.

“Once sealed,” I continue, “the milk can will be enclosed by a three-walled cabinet. Its triangular shape allows no room for trickery and, most notably, can be unlatched only from the inside.” The stagehands are now fetching the roofless structure from just offstage. “Upon a countdown of five, I challenge each of you fine ladies and gentlemen to hold your breath along with Monsieur Bouchard, who shall be submerged in five…four…”

The audience joins in. Charles inhales and exhales in exaggerated preparation. On the collective utterance of “one,” he plunges below the surface. My internal timer begins as I affix the cover, catching a whiff of his breath. Under the faint sweetness from his usual cherry Luden’s drops comes a citric-juniper scent, one I know well from my past.

Gin.

God in heaven…

The root of his behavior is finally clear.

But the volunteers have descended on the can. They’re securing padlocks to the latches as I’ve instructed. The band launches into a peppy tune—“Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition”—as the stagehands heft the wooden cabinet into place. Swiftly assembled, the tall but sturdy barrier obscures Charles from everyone’s view.

Including mine.

A surge of fear shoots through my veins. I manage to point the volunteers back to their seats, where the audience has gone silent, breaths held. In the front row, a pigtailed girl puffs her cheeks with all the verve of Dizzy Gillespie.

Thirty seconds.

Beside the cabinet, I wait on my mark, hand on hip. Calm and confident. Already Charles should be free of his cuffs. They’re merely trick pairs, the norm for underwater acts. I deftly swapped out the real ones after the volunteers examined them. Though certain of this, I furtively confirm their distinctive weighted feel in the lower pockets of my skirt, among the many hidden compartments I’ve designed for our acts.

Forty-five seconds.

A good portion of the crowd yields to their lungs. A smattering of ladies giggle at their own folly. Fellows tend to hold out longer, surely sneaking air through their noses while attempting to impress their dates or protect their pride, likely both.

All the while, through the strategically blaring music I listen for hints of the outer neck sliding from the can. That simple step is all the escape requires. A person could finagle it deaf or blind. Drunk, even—not that Charles is. Yes, he’s become one to indulge, at times heavily these days, but after the show, never before.

Until now.

One minute.

Heat pours from the stage lights in compounding waves. Sweat prickles my scalp, my updo tightening against its pins. The last few holdouts in the auditorium are gasping for air. At any moment, a stagehand should emerge with an ax to boost anticipation, as if ready to bust through the cabinet and break off the padlocks. But that ax now lies in pieces.

At least destroying the handle didn’t damage the can, so far as I could tell.

Oh, why didn’t I stall for a closer look?

One minute thirty.

Thoughts of another escape artist barge into my mind: Genesta. His is a cautionary tale to promote double- and triple-checking. The famed performer failed to notice a critical dent in his milk can from being dropped during setup, preventing the lid’s upward slide. His fatal, final act.

It’s for this reason I demanded Charles practice for months, stretching his lungs in baths—up to three minutes, three seconds by my pocket watch—and why we use only a lid that reserves air at the very top.

Granted, tonight his compromised state could make all those precautions worthless.

Two minutes.

“Hey, toots!” The same heckling sailor. “So much for your pal’s superpowers, huh?”

His jeering this time is largely lost to others’ worries, evident in faces and fidgets and murmurs. The reactions, which I normally relish, feel like viruses invading the room.

I train my gaze on the cabinet hinges. Only recently did I agree to remove the outer latch—Charles’s idea, for heightened drama—but with one provision: an inch-wide gap at the corner would allow me a peek if needed.

My yearning to do so swells, bridled by his own stipulation: even if concerned, I wasn’t to look until the three-minute mark. We’re not there yet, I know this, with every second an impossibly slow tick. Charles’s reasoning is technically sound; he’s never once faltered escaping the can, and an overt gauging of progress would dilute the act. Particularly in the mind of a critic.

But then, so would a drowning.

The decision is my call, and I’m making it.

I move with a purposeful stride to the far corner of the cabinet, as if following a choreographed routine. With a few sharp tugs, I form a narrow opening and glimpse inside. The lid appears in place, same for the padlocks, a sign of all going right. Or horrendously wrong.

My eyes strain for a fuller view, for any sight of Charles. But there’s nothing…

Scenarios skitter through my head, of his fainting underwater—as even Houdini’s skillful brother once did—or passing out from the booze, or having the keys lodged in his throat. Whichever the case, the trick is over.

“Charles! Can you hear me?” The musicians trample my voice, their notes like bootheels squashing each syllable. I snap toward the pit. “Stop!”

The song ends raggedly, giving way to dull thunks. Not from the musicians but from Charles. Muffled by water, handcuffs are striking the can. The lid must be stuck!

Suddenly there’s quiet, an audible ceasing of metal against metal. The absence of sound is smothering. I stave off panic, remembering the ax—what’s left of it.

“Hold on, I’m coming!” Heart hammering my ribs, I scramble to retrieve the head of the ax from the stage floor. I clutch its handle, a jagged stump, and thrust the blade through the cabinet gap, trying, trying to break the latch. Failing. Pain shoots through my palm. Splintered wood tears at my skin.

At the vision of him inside, trapped in darkness and starved for air, ancient memories creep from the caverns of my mind, of tangled limbs and muffled cries, an endless procession of caskets in the snow.

I block them out, seeking a solution.

Whatever am I doing? The cabinet can be toppled. This is the means of backup that Charles claimed would never be required. Like the ax he destroyed, the keys he swallowed.

I drop the blade and start shoving the cabinet with both hands. The triangular structure slides and clunks against the can, refusing to tip. I scan the wings for the stagehands. Why aren’t they there? Where did they go?

I’ve forgotten the crowd. Patrons stare with hands over mouths, perplexed, questioning. Many are half-risen from their seats, clutching the arm of a neighbor. Unblinking eyes stare down from the balcony.

“Please, help,” I yell. “Anyone!”

Comprehension flashes. Frightful cries erupt. I push at the cabinet again, fruitlessly, as a blur of uniforms and suits scurry for the aisles. I search for a military nurse or medic’s insignia, anticipating Charles’s next need, but the strangers freeze. All of them. Turned to statues.

Are they still deliberating, doubting if this is real? A fierce command gathers in my throat, ready to burst, when a noise sweeps through the room. A pattering, like drizzle growing to a downpour.

Clapping. People are applauding.

No—stop! I think as their grimaces morph into smiles, gasps reversing into sighs.

And then I see it. A metallic glint swings me around. Two sets of handcuffs hang from the crook of a finger. Charles—he made it out, alive and safe! Panting with a look of exhaustion, he stands sopping wet at the opened cabinet. The milk can looms in the background, sealed with all six locks.

Zealous hollers and whistles bloom. Many in the crowd pat their chests, calming their hearts, laughing from the thrill. Charles absorbs it all with grandeur, bidding “Merci.” His grin widens with his every bow.

Still overcome, I command myself to breathe, to repel the memories stacked on my chest.

Nudged by Charles, I stiffly join his side and catch sight of the child in front. Her face bears the light-headed shock of a near plummet from a cliff. Though equally dizzy, I seek to uphold the facade that nothing actually went astray. My sense of relief gains purchase until a pointed wink from Charles. Appreciative, it seems.

But not for me. Not even for some bombshell in the audience as I’ve come to expect.

This wink is for the right wing of the stage. More aptly, for the pair of stagehands who have conveniently reappeared. From their boastful smirks of those in the know, every obstacle of the act floats back through my mind. They join like patches of clouds, snips of a riddle, conjuring a whole: the ax and keys, the newly added latch, Charles’s urgent pounding that halted at my calls…

My attention cuts back to his face.

There’s arrogance in his eyes, underscored by his stance. No authentic trace of fear, nor true relief from a tragedy averted.

Why would there be? All had gone according to plan, his plan, including my role as an unwitting pawn.

Chapter 2

Two knocks on my dressing room door precede the turn of the knob. The caller doesn’t wait for an invite.

This is how I suspect it isn’t some fellow from the audience bearing a bouquet and sheepish smile, touting my resemblance to sensuous starlet Hedy Lamarr—which incidentally is a right stretch in my view. Not to say the remark is why, after my gracious bidding of thanks, I always send them on their way.

I verge on doing the same now, albeit ungraciously as Charles steps into the room. But first I’ll see what’s left of his decency, if any.

Seated at my mirror, I close the gap in my satiny stage robe—indeed to cover my brassiere but also the residual quake in my hands—and eye his reflection. Already he’s switched into his trousers and undershirt, quick changes being a necessity of the trade. When the fall of the curtain launched me seething from the stage, I left him and his cohorts to corral our supplies.

He has nerve, approaching me so soon. I’ll grant him that much.

Then again, it’s a trait I personally helped cultivate.

“Swell space ya got,” he says, easing in, glancing around. His practiced stage diction is replaced by his casual Louisianan speech. “I reckon we could do a whole lot shabbier.”

The remarks would once have been laced with playful irony, given the pitiful accommodations we’ve endured, specifically while traveling with variety shows before breaking out on our own. Surrounding me here are theatrical posters neatly hung, a proper costume rack, and a pair of cushioned chairs accented by a table—each incredibly with all four legs. Most comforting of all, I have a window large enough for an emergency exit.

So yes, the room is rather nice, if smaller and mustier than the one assigned to Charles. I’m certain of this without having to check; he’s a man and the star. And long gone are the days when he at least offered to trade.

“What do you want, Charles?”

“Just, uh, making sure you’re okay.”

“Oh?” I say, since we’re apparently playing games. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He goes to speak but resorts to a shrug, both shoulders draped with a towel. “I…guess ya put two and two together.”

“If by that, you mean your reckless, pompous, devious—”

“C’mon, Fenna. Don’t be sour.”

“Sour? You think I’m being petty?”

The quirk of his thin lips says everything before he drops into one of the chairs. Even without the shadows from my vanity lights, he appears a decade beyond our common age of twenty-four. Escapology can wear on a body, it’s true. But his accumulating vices have by no means helped. Only his drying natural curls provide fleeting evidence of the friend I used to know.

“Look, I’m sorry it shook you up. I swear it.”

“Is that so? Because you didn’t appear to regret a thing. And frankly you still don’t.”

He hesitates, unable to argue. “Ah, geez. You heard ’em out there. We were a smash!”

Typical misdirection. Another lesson I passed along.

I clutch my robe harder, triggering a throbbing in my palm, a gouge of which Charles isn’t aware. If he was, he would inquire about it, hands in our profession being as vital as those to a concert pianist. Fortunately the wound required only iodine and a small bandage, giving me no cause to divulge the depth of my foolishness as he rattles on.

“Tell me you at least got a load of those dogfaces. Even the big beefy ones came charging for the stage. When I busted out of the cabinet, saw it myself, them dopes were scared outta their wits.”

“I agree. They were dopes to ever worry.”

The barb soars right on by. Charles is too busy savoring the coup against his favorite targets. To him, with flat feet barring him from the draft, all enlisted men have become macho buffoons hoodwinked into fighting someone else’s war. Battling Japan, I can see, he’d say—in light of Pearl Harbor, obviously—but why Germany and Italy and all those others? Admittedly skeptical of printed propaganda since my childhood, I had no answer.

“Oh hey, did ya hear the news flash?” he goes on. “House manager says the critic definitely caught the show. His ticket was picked up at the window. Just think of the write-up we’re bound to get. In the New York Herald Tribune of all things.”

“I can imagine.” Easily so. Featured will be the lone achievements of Monsieur Charles Bouchard, an exotic title based less on his ancestry and basic French speaking skills than my foresight to gain us prestige. But that’s not the issue. “And if you ask me? None of it matters a whit.”

His eyes go wide. “None of—? How can you say that? I thought this was about ticket sales. About building our reputation, top bookings…”

I swivel to face him. “What matters is you should have warned me.”

He shakes his head, flabbergasted, as if dealing with an obstinate child. “Fenna, for Pete’s sake. Me not letting on, that’s the reason it worked. Your honest-to-goodness fear is what got ’em believing. All those surprises you didn’t count on—”

“You should have warned me,” I start again, “so I’d have known when to shout for help.” My failure to calculate the clues, to anticipate his plot, is a point I’ll begrudge myself for some time; it’s my main cause now for not exploding. “What if those people had made it to the cabinet seconds earlier? They could have pushed it over while you were in the milk can. Or even in the midst of climbing your way out.”

He ponders this, then exhales and shows his palms. “Okay, fine. I did cut it a li’l close.”

A little? I abandon refuting this, diverted by the drop and drag of his syllables, even heavier than usual. And I remember.

“Alternately, I suppose, we could just blame the gin.”

His expression stalls. With an element of surprise reversing our roles, I press on. “At least tell me it was the first time you’ve been dim-witted enough to drink before a show.”

The plea is real. I need to believe I haven’t missed previous signs.

Gathering himself, he insists, “It was the first, all right? But it was nothin’.”

I nearly laugh. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“Only a few nips with the stagehands while ironing out details.”

I clench my teeth, unsure which bothers me more: his cavalier take on risking our livelihoods—with more than a “few nips” no doubt, and perhaps even between our acts—or that I had been ganged up on, in a show of my own creation.

Fuming, I shift back to the vanity. I’m tempted to hurl my wooden brush his way, but I resist. A lump to his skull, though much deserved, could interfere with the conclusion of our three-day run tomorrow, and I’m in no mood for another debacle. Including at our next stop, a promising venue in Boston. For now, my hairpins will have to take the brunt.

I yank each one free, tossing them aside. My twist unravels in a light-bronze mess as I steer toward matters of business. “We’ll need a replacement ax. And a new latch if it’s damaged.” I meet Charles’s gaze in the mirror. “Naturally, they’ll come out of your share of the wages.”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?” His indifference to any drain on his “hard-earned dough” suggests a touch of guilt. Or maybe it’s the imbibement. “I’ll grab them at a hardware store in the mornin’.”

I’m about to reinforce that he’ll do just that when I envision, a mere day from now, revisiting that dratted cabinet. Although a kiddie show is taking our last matinee slot, leaving us just an evening performance, I still think better of it.

A change is in order.

“I’ll get them myself.”

“Ah, c’mon,” he groans. “There’s no need.”

He thinks I’m being dramatic.

I’m being practical.

“I have to buy new pieces of wood anyway. For the time being…” Reluctant, I finish: “We’re shelving the Milk Can Escape.”

His forehead scrunches. But then he sits up, comprehending. “You mean we’re swapping it for the Goblet?” The hope in his voice makes me wince. I detest that the switch seems a reward for tonight, yet my desire to resume control, at least behind the scenes, wins out.

And so I nod.

He celebrates with a clap. “Hot dog. Finally!”

Despite his harping—about our timing and maneuvering being fine-tuned for almost two months—I’d refrained from incorporating the flashy finale, even at theaters with workable layouts like the one offered here. Though I’ve had my reasons.

“You just wait till the big finish,” he murmurs. “The audience’ll go batty.” He’s already visualizing the adulation heaped upon him, among his few priorities as of late.

I cut short the vision. “I presume I won’t need a fresh set of keys?”

“Huh? Yeah, yeah. Already handled.” It’s a civil way to address the topic of regurgitation. “And yes, Fenna, they’ll be washed up good as new.”

His thwarting of my next question, fingering me as predictable, is just fine by me, as little good in my life has come from surprises. But it’s the bother in his tone, an edge he’s become so quick to employ, that grates on my ears. As if I’m a wife nagging over a chore as trivial as wiping his shoes at the door. Still, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of vexing me—more than he already has.

“Dandy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish dressing up.”

He obliges by rising, only to stop, bemused. “You sayin’…you got some fancy plans?”

I realize I misspoke. My senses remain frazzled, all by his doing. “No—I meant, to finish getting dressed.”

He lifts a brow, probing like a nosy brother.

“I’m simply going home,” I insist.

Home. It sounds lovelier than the reality of my latest boardinghouse in a ceaseless string of rented rooms. On the rosy side, it’s several city blocks from Charles’s motel, a sizable distance presently welcome.

At my unflinching gaze, he looks convinced, then inspired. “Ya know, if you’re game, we could paint the town. We got a half day off tomorrow, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” And that break is just as welcome.

“I’ve found a great jazz joint—the Tin Kettle. It’s a real gasser. Or we could hit a supper club if you’re hungry. This is New York, after all. Lots of pretty swell things to do.”

Sure, and for a pretty penny.

“I’ll pass. You enjoy though.”

His shoulders sag and his smile goes weary. “Yeah, well. Can’t fault me for tryin’.” My answer isn’t a shock to either of us. “Want company for the walk back?”

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m fine on my own.”

After a beat, he nods. “You always are.” He might have intended the comment as lighthearted, maybe even snide. What emerged, paired with his deep-set amber eyes, reflects more of a sense of hurt.

I stiffen as he heads for the door. The rift between us, ever growing these days, feels wide and ragged as a canyon. Partnership aside, we used to share a friendly comfort, often trading advice and opinions—his generally on food and politics, mine on his fashion picks and potential dates. Of course, that was before the girls more closely resembled conquests, and certainly before his bloated ego made him averse to any insight I’m inclined to give.

Through it all, nonetheless, it does seem strange. He has no inkling of the history I’ve buried, of what I’ve survived, the wonder of how I survived at all. If he did, he might understand my dire need for self-reliance, why I hoard every cent I earn. Why the walls around me serve to protect not only me but those I yearn not to hurt.

“Charles…” As I angle toward him, he turns back, expectant. I prepare to share, the words stringing together like colored kerchiefs from a conjurer’s mouth.

But at the shimmer of his hair and skin—still wet from his rogue stunt—logic intervenes. While minor in the grand scheme of things, his actions were a betrayal, an exploitation of trust. And beyond that, gratuitously dangerous.

I voice only what’s relevant. “Drink again before the final curtain, and I’ll call off the show.”

His jaw sets at the ultimatum. He grabs both ends of his draped towel and half bows. “You’re the boss.” He shuts the door hard behind him. As if he’s the one with a right to be incensed.

How is that even remotely reasonable?

I twist back to the mirror, thankful I confided nothing. Relieved! And yet, I appear as worn and agitated as I suddenly feel. I long for a bath, to scrub the rouge from my face and the kohl from my eyes, along with every memory of this night. Including Charles and his parting sneer.

Although, he does…have a point.

From the get-go, I’ve been the person in charge. The one teaching, envisioning, solving. Both the composer and conductor, virtually unseen at center stage.

Perhaps someone—other than Charles—ought to be privy to that fact.